


The Bridges We Build

by ultimatebellarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, Memory Loss, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10078547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultimatebellarke/pseuds/ultimatebellarke
Summary: All that remains constant in Bellamy Blake's life are the mythologies of his books and the face of the woman with the golden hair. Based on prompt: "Bellarke + Memory Loss + Maximum Angst"





	

Bellamy Blake lives in a white room. It's always so bright – too bright, he thinks – but they tell him it needs to be that way. That doesn't stop him from fighting back, though. Whenever he gets the chance, he hangs the paintings anywhere he can. He covers every inch of the damn room in soft yellow flowers and the constellations he’s memorized. He does it until the white no longer blinds him. 

The paintings are always ultimately removed. Gone when he wakes up, gone when he returns from another room. But he always finds the paintings. And he just puts them back up. 

When they ask him how old he is, Bellamy wants to answer "twenty-four". That's wrong, he's told, because Bellamy Blake is 48 years old. They constantly reassure him that he is completely safe. Even when he feels as if the flames are engulfing him, when the blood is thick and choking, they tell him he is only dreaming.

During the day, he reads to children. So many faces, so bright and eager and hopeful, yet none stick to his mind. He tries to remember, he really does. But the memories he gathers never adhere, washing away like stones in a river stream. 

They assure him it's okay. That the most he can do is be happy day-to-day. But how can he do that when each morning assaults him with its unfamiliarity?

When he reads to the children, however, he realizes he knows the words by heart. The tales of Augustus and Cassiopeia and the trapped maidens and the thief of flames—Bellamy can recite each word in his sleep. And he loves telling the stories to the children. He loves seeing their wide eyes, their unsuppressed delight. He basks in their excitement.

Then there are the visitors. He gets many on some days, fewer on others. There are the faces which he is almost certain he's seen before, the ones he thinks he remembers—but then he thinks too hard and it all collapses, the flimsy scaffold of a returning memory crumbling to dust.

Nothing gets him angrier than this. And for hours, nothing can calm him down. 

Bellamy knows he will never remember. That no structure he attempts to build will ever remain erect. He wishes, he hopes, he even prays—yet no face solidifies in his mind. 

Except, of course, for hers.

The woman. The one who hasn’t missed a day to visit him. The one whose face is the only one etched right alongside the epic tales of his storybooks.

Maybe it's because of her hair, warm like sunlight. Maybe it's her laugh, a sound he looks forward to hearing each day. Maybe it's because he takes one look at her face and his whole body relaxes; like muscle memory, a reflex from a lifetime ago. 

He wonders constantly about her. Before he sleeps, when he brushes his teeth, when he takes the blue pills. The woman visits him every day. More than once per day, sometimes for several hours at a time. She brings him apples. 

"Are you my wife?" He'd asked her, more than once. 

Her eyes would always turn so desolate that he remembers why he does not ask the question more. "No," she would tell him. "We aren't married."

He would joke, "Do you want to get married, then?"

She would smile. Her entire face would light up, and she would laugh, and his heart would feel like it was swelling. 

God, he is so glad her face is as enduring as the mythologies. And he spends hours just memorizing her face, because forgetting her would be the end of him.

One day they are drinking tea, watching the creek gurgle as the snow melts into spring. "It's beautiful," she murmurs, her eyes on the glittering stream. 

He agrees, but he is more focused on the gold of her lashes. Suddenly, a thought hits him. He asks her, "Did you give me those paintings?"

"Yes, Bellamy." Her voice holds the steadiness of practiced patience. "I painted them for you."

He considers this. "They're beautiful."

"I know," her lips quirk, "you've told me."

"Oh." He's now looking at her eyes. He's sure he hasn't seen anything that shade of blue. " _You're_ beautiful."

She laughs, and he feels like the sun itself is warming his chest. "You've told me that, too.”

But a fire has started inside of Bellamy. Something grips his chest—a rigid conviction, a strong, unshakeable feeling that this should not be. Words begin to bubble out of him. "I feel like we should be married."

Damn it. Her face is again submerged in sadness. "You're right," she murmurs. "We should be."

"Let's do it, then." Bellamy suddenly wants to run, to scream, to fight. “What are we waiting for?”

She does not answer. She just stares straight ahead. He thinks he sees wetness gather in those eyes.

And suddenly, he thinks he remembers. Snatches of something – flowers and blood and darkness and _something_ – start to return, start to taunt Bellamy from the edges, reaching out tendrils, pulling at him—

But he concentrates too hard and it all falls, cascades away, and he is back to nothing. 

"No," he says, the anger building, the dejection encompassing. He grabs his head. "No, damn it. No."

“Bellamy—”

He feels her hands on his, her hair in his. But he is too far gone—the redness returns full force, and he is sinking in flames. Far removed from the world around him, lost to the darkness, Bellamy lets himself fall.

When he wakes up, he is back in the too-white room. In front of him are two blue pills. 

When he turns his head, stacked against his blinding white bed, he sees a painting. A forest, vividly green, and a creek sparkling from the sunlight. It’s a new one, he knows. He always gets a new painting when he has to take the damn pills.

Bellamy holds the two blue tablets to his face. There is no use throwing them out, he knows, because they always know. They know everything.

Bellamy thinks of the woman with the unforgettable laugh and hair as gold as sunlight. He isn’t sure of many things, but he knows with absolute, unyielding certainty that he loves her.   
And sometimes, he thinks she may even feel the same.

Bellamy Blake closes his eyes. Thinking of Clarke Griffin, he swallows the pills.

**Author's Note:**

> Anon wanted this as angsty as possible - angst is what you shall receive!


End file.
